


All the Best Cowboys Have Daddy Issues

by lookninjas



Series: The Man Behind the Curtain (Ben!verse) [9]
Category: Glee
Genre: Alzheimer's Disease, Casual homophobia and sexism, Discussions of infidelity, Gen, Strained family relationships, discussions of medically-assisted suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-13
Updated: 2011-07-13
Packaged: 2018-05-23 02:43:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6102202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lookninjas/pseuds/lookninjas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blaine and his father travel to Arizona to visit family.  It doesn't go the way that they expected it to; but then again, maybe that's not such a bad thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Not only is this part of the [ben!verse](http://lookninjas.livejournal.com/tag/ben!verse), it is _ridiculously_ Ben-centric. So, there's that to think about. The title comes from an episode of _Lost_ , and the song referenced in this chapter is [Still Fighting It](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kqPwR39VMh0) by Ben Folds.

The shaking of the airplane settles down into a low, quiet vibration, and Ben tries to remember how to breathe. He tells himself that it's over, that the worst is over. It's not true, of course, but that's what he tells himself, and he breathes, relaxing back into the seat.

Blaine's hand, still resting on his knee, squeezes reassuringly before pulling away, and Ben forces himself to open his eyes. "Sorry," he says, quietly, a little embarrassed. There's something at once comforting and humiliating about having Blaine here with him. Blaine's grown up to be so... sturdy. Reliable. Loyal. There's no one Ben would rather have with him for this trip. At the same time, he shouldn't need Blaine, or anyone at all, really. He's just visiting his family. It shouldn't be such a difficult thing to do. He should be able to deal with them by now.

But he isn't, and Blaine obviously knows that, or he wouldn't have volunteered to come along.

Ben watches his son out of the corner of his eye, watches Blaine watching him. There's something worried in Blaine's expression, the tilt of his head. He doesn't say anything, though; he turns away and rummages through his backpack, finally coming out with his iPod. It takes him a few seconds to untangle the headphones (Ben can't help but smile at that), and when he's finally got it, he holds one of the earbuds out, right underneath Ben's nose so he can't miss it.

"What's this?" Ben asks.

Blaine grins back at him. "Distraction," he says, cheerfully.

It's a kind gesture -- Blaine's full of them, these days -- but it only makes Ben feel worse somehow. He shakes his head, pushing Blaine's hand away. "Thank you, but I don't really need..."

" _Dad_ ," Blaine says. It's funny, how many different ways he has of saying that one word. Amused, irritated, loving... worried. And then there's the wide-eyed sincerity on his face, the look of a boy who just wants to make things better, whatever way he can.

Ben can resist a lot, but he can't resist that look on Blaine's face. He never could.

"Well," he says, finally, and takes the earbud from Blaine's outstretched hand. "I suppose it can't hurt." To be honest, he's not at all sure of that -- Blaine's taste in music is... Well, it's wider than Ben's. Not that it's bad -- even if Ben doesn't always care for the same things that Blaine does, he realizes that there must be something good in them. It's just that sometimes Ben doesn't feel like challenging himself with new music. Sometimes he just wants something familiar.

But then, Blaine knows him pretty well by now, and he's clearly learned to anticipate these things. Because when Blaine fumbles his own earbud in and presses _Play_ , Ben hears the sound of a piano, an acoustic guitar, and gentle vocals.

_Good morning, son. I am a bird..._

Ben smiles at his son, just quickly, before relaxing into his seat and closing his eyes. And he tells himself once again that the worst is over. They've survived takeoff, which is always the hardest part of the flight, and soon they'll be in Arizona, and he and Blaine can spend a few quiet days with Ben's family, and it will be fine. Everything will be fine. The worst is over.

It isn't, though. Of course it's not.

Blaine's hand settles on his knee again, and Ben reminds himself to breathe.

_And you're so much like me. I'm sorry._

 

*

 

"Is he going to remember us?" Blaine asks, looking nervously out the windshield at his grandparents' house. The funny thing is how _harmless_ it looks, a low, sloping thing with a wide porch, the typical Sedona desert landscaping in the yard. It should be easy to just walk right up, waltz right in. It shouldn't be this frightening. "I mean, he seemed okay at Thanksgiving, mostly, but that was a while ago, and he... What if he's forgotten? Forgotten us?"

Ben's more frightened by the possibility that his father will _remember_ them, that he's leading his son into a house still full of all the old bitterness, the old resentments. But he doesn't know how to say that, and he's pretty sure he probably shouldn't bother trying. "We don't have to, Blaine," he says, quietly. "If you don't want to. I could... I could take you back to the hotel, if you wanted, come back on my own. I wouldn't mind. You don't have to do this if you're not ready."

It's Blaine's turn to close his eyes, breathe deeply, and although Ben hates to see his son this frightened of his own grandfather, it's kind of reassuring that it's his turn to be the strong one; that it isn't just that he's leaning on Blaine but that the two of them are holding each other up. That they're in it together, for better or for worse. "No," Blaine says, finally. "I'm ready. I mean... I'm _not_ ready, but..." He places his hand over his father's, still resting on the gear shift. "Let's go inside."

"All right," Ben says, and reaches up to turn off the ignition. "If you're sure."

Blaine nods, slowly. "I'm sure," he says.

Ben rests his hand on Blaine's shoulder for just a moment, just because he can, then takes a deep breath, undoes his seatbelt, and climbs out of the car before he has time to think twice about it.

The sun is scorching, far too bright, and Ben feels a little dizzy as he makes his way up the gravel path from the driveway to the house, aware of Blaine hovering just behind his shoulder, carefully keeping himself within reach. He's never really been a fan of Arizona sunshine -- even in November, when Ohio is lashed with sharp-edged winds carrying freezing rain, he'd much rather be shivering at home than burning in this fierce, bright light. And that's in November. August is easily a thousand times worse, and he's already almost looking forward to the shade of the house and the hum of air conditioning in the minute or so it takes him to reach the front steps.

He's only just lifting his hand to knock at the door when it swings open in front of him. " _There_ you are!" his sister scolds, pulling him into a hug before he can even get his hand down again; it winds up awkwardly squashed between their bodies as she clutches at him. She's getting thin; there's more silver in her hair than there used to be, more creases around her eyes. "Mom was worrying herself sick about you. Honestly, Ben, you need to call us if you're going to be late; I don't know why you can't -- And Blaine!" Katie lets go of Ben just as abruptly as she seized hold of him, pushing him into the house even as she reaches out to grab Blaine by the shoulder. "Look at you, so handsome now. Bet you're breaking all the girls' hearts, aren't you?"

"Oh yes," Ben says, watching, bemused, as Katie drags Blaine inside, managing to wrap him up in a hug and slam the door shut behind them in one smooth movement. "Yes, he certainly is. Actually, that reminds me; did Mom show you the --"

" _There_ you are!" Ben's mother emerges from the kitchen, drying her hands on a towel. She looks... actually, she looks better than Ben might have expected. There might be a bit more slump to her shoulders than there was before, a bit more weariness around her eyes, but she's still smiling, her white hair a halo around her face, her light eyes clear and bright. When she reaches out for Ben, her embrace is as strong as it's always been. "You should have called to say you'd be late, Benjamin; we were worried sick about you. Oh, and Blaine, look at you --" She turns to her grandson, cupping his chin in her hands so she can study him. Blaine smiles down at her, his expression warm and fond. "So handsome. You're not breaking any hearts out there, are you?"

"Trying not to," Blaine says, glancing a little nervously at Ben. "I think it's going okay so far?"

Ben smiles back, because he can't help it. He still has some doubts about this boyfriend thing, about how fast the two of them seem to be moving sometimes, about the danger they put themselves in every time they're together, but there's no denying that Kurt brings out the warmest, kindest sides of Blaine's personality. The idea of Blaine doing anything to damage that seems palpably ridiculous. "I think you're doing just fine," he says, and Blaine's face lights up. It's so easy to make him happy; Ben forgets that sometimes. "Mom, did you show Katie those pictures I sent you? Blaine's prom pictures?"

His mother sighs, finally letting Blaine go, reaching back to pat Ben on the arm. "Oh, Benjamin." That'd be a no, then. Blaine's smile falters a little bit; Ben belatedly regrets ever having brought it up at all. "You know I'm no good at these computer things. The e-mail, and all of that. Your father -- now, he's always understood that sort of thing. Not that he does it much lately, of course. Doesn't have the patience anymore."

It's not exactly a welcome change of subject, but it's the only one that's coming to mind. And, after all, that is the reason they're here. "How -- How is he?" Ben asks, as Blaine steps a little bit closer to him, their shoulders not quite touching. "How's Dad? I know when you called, you said he was having... That there had been some bad patches."

Katie looks at their mother, her mouth pressed into a tight line. She doesn't say anything.

His mother just smiles brightly. "Oh, he's having a little nap right now," she says, cheerfully. "It's been a busy week, with his birthday and everything, and then we had to go in for more tests, just to see where he stands now, and I'm afraid I turned the house upside-down getting ready, because of course we had to air out the guest room, and --"

Blaine gives Ben an inquisitive look; Ben can only sigh. "I thought I told you, Mom," he says. "I went ahead and reserved a hotel room for Blaine and myself. So you wouldn't have to go to this kind of trouble." And so that he wouldn't have to worry about his father's nocturnal wanderings keeping Blaine up all night, and so he would have someplace to go when his family (inevitably) became too much to deal with. But he doesn't want to hurt her, so he doesn't point that out.

"Oh, nonsense." Ben's mother waves her hand at him before strolling into the living room and sinking into her favorite chair. Katie follows her, hovering protectively at her right shoulder. It takes a few moments for Ben and Blaine to trail in after them, perching side-by-side on the couch. "I hate to make you spend that kind of money, dear. I mean, it's not the busy season for the hotels, but still, it isn't cheap, especially not on a teacher's salary."

Ben feels like he should say something to that, perhaps point out that a tenured professor at a nationally-known university makes _slightly_ more than your average high-school algebra teacher. But he can't seem to make himself form the words.

"Anyway, it's no trouble for us," his mother continues. "I mean, since Miranda decided to stay at home and everything --" Blaine makes a choked noise, and Ben can only blink. "Not that... Oh, dear. I didn't mean it like _that_. Only that... well, you know. The two of you can fit in the guest bedroom perfectly fine, but I think three people... It just wouldn't be comfortable."

"Yes," Ben says, and it comes out strangled. Blaine's hand settles on his knee, gripping a little harder than is strictly necessary, but Ben can't find it in his heart to be angry about that. "Yes, of course."

"But I didn't mean it any other way." His mother's cheeks are pink; her voice a little higher, embarrassed. "You know we always love to have Miranda with us. She's such a... Such a fascinating person. It's a shame she couldn't make it out for your father's birthday."

"Yes, of course," Ben says again, but he doesn't think his voice is any steadier than it was before. "She was... She was very sorry that she couldn't come." Which is not entirely a lie; there's no love lost between Miranda and Ben's parents, but then, Ben doesn't always get along with his parents either. Miranda knows that, and she tries to be there with him, to help him through it. He knows she would be here now if she could, even if just for his sake. "But she sends her love."

Katie looks at him with disbelieving eyes, shakes her head, and turns away. "I'll go get Dad," she says, over her shoulder. "It's time for his medicine anyway." Then she's vanished down the hallway, leaving Ben with his son and his mother and an ever-increasing sense of dread.

Blaine's hand tightens a little more on Ben's knee, and Ben swallows hard.

 

*

 

After roughly half an hour of anxious waiting, broken up only with intermittent attemts at small talk that are invariably strangled by his mother's implacable refusal to talk about anything more serious than what she ate for breakfast that morning, Katie finally returns with their father. The change in him is... Well. It's alarming. Jacob Anderson has always towered over his family, leaving them in his shadow, and he's still not small exactly, but... There's less of him than there used to be, and it's hard to see that. It's hard to watch him lean on Katie's shoulder, no longer able to stand on his own, his feet moving forward in small, shuffling steps. He's shrinking, Ben realizes. He's collapsing in on himself like a decaying star. Soon, there'll be nothing left at all.

"Here he is," Katie trills, her voice too cheerful, patently forced. "Sorry that took so long; we were still a little bit sleepy after our nap, weren't we?" And there's something reassuring in the way their father looks at her when she says that, in the obvious irritation on his face and the way he shakes his head, even if he immediately goes back to watching his feet like he's afraid he'll forget how to walk if he doesn't keep his eye on them.

"For God's sake, Katie," Ben says, pushing himself up off the couch and stepping forward. "He's not a child." He reaches out a hand, and Jacob immediately reaches back, his grip hard and heavy on Ben's forearm. He's still not looking up, though, his eyes fixed firmly on the carpet; Ben ducks down a little bit, trying to catch his father's eye. "Hey, Dad," he says, quietly. "How've you been?"

His father looks up at him for just a moment, his eyes rheumy and slightly vague, then takes a few steps sideways, just enough so he can look back at Ben's mother. "You moved the chair," he says, petulant. "I told you to stop moving my damn chair. You need to stop it."

And despite everything, Ben feels his stomach drop a little bit. He was never expecting a fond embrace; he knew there'd be no tearful father and son reunion. Even when his father's memory was razor-sharp and absolutely perfect, Ben counted himself lucky if he recieved a grunt and a wave when he walked through the door. But this is... this is different somehow. His father's not ignoring him. He's just... not there anymore. Not fully, anyway.

For just a second, Ben looks up and meets his sister's eyes. She shakes her head sadly, then turns and vanishes into the kitchen.

"I'm sorry, dear," Ben's mother says, rising from her place and making a beeline for the blue recliner near the television. She places her hands on it, wiggles it a little bit -- a token gesture. Keep the invalid happy. "There," she says, after a few moments. "Is that better?"

Jacob starts moving again, clutching Ben's arm for support; Ben moves with him, one slow step at a time. "You need to stop moving my chair," he says, still glaring. "I'm tired of this game, Emily. Tired of it."

"Yes, dear," she replies, still leaning on the back of his chair. "Did you see that Ben and Blaine have come to visit us, Jacob? Now, isn't that nice of them, to come out all this way?"

Ben's father glances at him, grunts. Then he turns back to his wife. "I don't like having my chair here," he says. "I want you to stop moving it."

Her smile doesn't falter for a second. "Of course, dear. I won't do it again." She comes around the chair and helps Ben lower his father into it, the two of them holding Jacob by the elbows as he bends at the knees, sinking down. "It's been a while since we've seen Blaine, hasn't it? He's so grown up now, isn't he? And handsome, too. Don't you think so?"

Jacob just grunts again, and closes his eyes, leaving Blaine wholly unacknowledged.

"Well," Ben's mother says, straightening up and brushing off her skirt. "I suppose he's still a little tired. He'll perk up after dinner, though." She takes a moment to fix her hair, then turns back to Blaine, smiling as brightly as ever. "And how is your singing career going, Blaine? Your father said you won something... some Section thing, something like that. That must have been exciting for you."

Blaine stares helplessly at his father, eyes wide, and Ben can't tell if his son is about to burst into tears or start laughing hysterically. Fortunately, two and a half years of Dalton have given him just enough poise to choke the emotion back, plaster on a smile and say "Oh, yes. Well. I mean, we _tied_ for first, so I suppose it's not exactly the same, but..."

Ben sinks down next to Blaine, pressing their shoulders together, and wonders if he's done his filial duty yet, if he can take his son and run out the door now with a clear conscience. Probably not, unfortunately.

 

*

 

He does leave, briefly, to go back to the hotel and collect their luggage, a little ashamed that he's giving in to his mother so easily, but incapable of doing otherwise, particularly with Blaine's quiet insistence that "I don't mind, Dad, really. It's fine." And Ben knows perfectly well that Blaine does mind, and that it _isn't_ fine, but he's paralyzed by his own politeness, and Blaine is too, and that's what makes the two of them such a dangerous combination.

It would be different if Miranda were there, of course. Miranda has always stood up to Ben's family, even when he himself could not. She would never let herself be trampled on. But Miranda isn't there; it's too hard for her now, too much. After the constant stream of insinuations, all the little hints dropped -- _Better watch yourself, Benjamin; that girl can do better. Hell, maybe she already has_ \-- all the quiet comments about how little Blaine looked like his father, how strange it was that the two of them were so different, like they weren't related at all... Ben had promised Miranda, the last time, that she'd never have to go back to that.

Honestly, he hadn't even wanted to bring Blaine. He and Miranda have managed to keep the worst of the fighting out of Blaine's earshot, protected him as best they could, but Blaine's a sensitive boy, and it's hard for him to be around his grandfather for too long. Ben knows that; he knows that Blaine shouldn't be here, where he could so easily be hurt. But he'd had to tell Blaine where he was going and why, and Blaine had immediately volunteered to come with him, and although Ben had tried to talk him out of it, he'd crumbled immediately the moment that Blaine had looked at him with wide, sincere eyes, laid his hand over Ben's, and said " _Dad_ ," in that soft, worried voice. Just like he always does.

And now Blaine is alone at his grandparents' house, with his grandfather sitting silent and ominous in his chair, his grandmother chattering away about nothing, his aunt Katie hovering in the background, while Ben hurries off to get their luggage, cancel their hotel reservations, and effectively cut off the one escape route he and Blaine had available to them. Because Blaine can't help but be chivalrous, and Ben can't help but let him, and it's sure to lead to disaster in the end, but Ben doesn't know how to stop it. He's never been any good at saying "no," and Blaine... Well. Blaine is his son.

And, because Blaine is Ben's son, and Ben worries about these things, he doesn't wait for the bellhop at the hotel, just hurries up to the room and snatches up their bags, thankful that they hadn't taken the time to unpack upon arrival. He doesn't bother arguing with the hotel's desk clerk when she tells him cheerfully that she can't return his charges for the first night, and he'll get a reduced amount for the next two but that's the best she can offer him. He drives just a little over the speed limit the entire way back to his parents' house, even though he can't stand the thought of getting ticketed in a rental car, and when he finally arrives, he loads himself up with all of the bags at once and staggers in through the door with them, just on the off chance that something horrible has happened while he's away.

Of course, the house is completely peaceful. Katie's still in the kitchen; Blaine's father is slumped in his chair, either sleeping or pretending to sleep. And Blaine is curled up on the couch with his grandmother, the two of them poring over old photo albums.

"And that's your dad with _his_ grandfather," Ben's mother explains, pointing. "Grandpa Richard. Your grandfather's father. He's the one who had the farm; we have it now, of course, but it was his, first. You've been to the farm?"

"Yeah," Blaine says; he looks up as Ben enters, smiles at him. "Yeah, I have."

"We spent so much time at that farm when your dad was a little boy," Ben's mother says, smiling down at the album. Ben lets a couple of the bags slip to the floor (quietly, so as not to disturb anyone), and takes a moment to crouch next to them, getting things adjusted and possibly, just possibly, listening to his mother chatter on and on. "Your Grandpa Richard, he had this old car, funny-looking thing. Always tinkering with it, and of course, your father was always at his elbow, trying to help him with it. They doted on each other, him and his grandpa. I remember Jacob used to get so _mad_. No son of his was going to waste his time turning into a common mechanic. Goodness no. We'd never live down the shame of it. It was bad enough that Grandpa Richard was --"

Ben clears his throat, watching the expression on Blaine's face turn wounded. Of course, his parents don't know that Blaine is dating a mechanic's son; in fact, they seem determined not to let Ben tell them, or even give them a hint about it. But Ben knows, and he knows how Blaine admires Mr. Hummel, and he doesn't want that feeling to be tarnished by this kind of careless snobbery. "He was joking, Mom," he says, quickly. "That's all. You know how Dad is. It was just a joke."

"No, it wasn't," Jacob announces from his chair. His head is tucked forward on his chest, his eyes closed as though he's still asleep. "You're too smart for that, Ben. No sense wasting that brain of yours. And hell, not like you were good at it anyway. Think you hurt more than you helped."

Ben clears his throat again, because he's sure that his father isn't exactly wrong but still, what a thing to say, and the hurt on Blaine's face starts shading into worry. "So. Um. Dad," Blaine says, starting to push himself up off the couch. "Did you need help with the luggage? Because I could --"

"Oh, here we go!" Ben's mother reaches out for Blaine, tugging him back down again. "I knew there was a picture of it somewhere. There you are, Blaine; that's the car your father was so fond of. Funny-looking old thing, isn't it?"

Ben feels himself flushing, and stares intently at the nearest bag, fiddling with the zipper. He'd almost forgotten... And of course, now Blaine will see, and he'll know, and Ben can't watch him do that. He just... He can't.

"Is that a Bel Air?" Blaine asks, something strange and awed in his voice. "Because it looks like... I mean, maybe it's a little longer in the front than ours, but..."

"It was older," Ben says, quickly, and doesn't look up. It's ridiculous; of course it is. After everything, it can't hurt for Blaine to realize that Ben had his reasons when he picked that particular car for them to rebuild. But still, it's... "A '55, maybe? Or a '56; I don't remember anymore." It was a '55; he remembers. Of course he remembers. And that's the family joke; that's what makes him the sentimental one, the emotional one. He always remembers these things.

Ben's mother just laughs. "It was ancient, Benjamin. That's what it was. _Old_. I always wondered why your grandfather hung on to it. But he loved that thing. Do you remember when he taught you to drive it? Back at the farm? Oh, the damage you did... Some of those old trees will never be the same. But that car was just fine. Tough as nails, even if it didn't look like much."

 _Like me,_ Ben thinks, because that's what his grandfather always said. _Might not look like much, but she's tough as nails. Kinda like you._ He'd thought about that a lot when he and Blaine were rebuilding theirs, the two of them up to their elbows in grease, and he'd tried to find a way to say it. To let Blaine know that he was stronger than he thought, that he could handle more. That Ben believed in him. But even with his grandfather's voice ringing in his ear, Ben had been unable to speak, and somehow their time spent rebuilding the Bel Air wound up meaning less than it should have, pushing them further apart instead of closer together.

Ben had despaired a little, then. He'd wondered if it wasn't too late for the two of them. But maybe he was wrong, because when he finally manages to meet his son's eyes, he sees Blaine watching him with something quiet and amazed and strangely understanding on his face.

"Dad," Blaine says, a little breathless. He pushes himself up to his feet, not letting his grandmother pull him down again, and hurries over to Ben's side, scooping up one of the bags. "Here, I can... Let me help."

Up close, Blaine's smile is almost blinding; his eyes are wide and bright. "Okay," Ben says, blinking, and lets Blaine help him get their duffel bags and carry-on luggage divided neatly between the two of them.

They fall into step together, shuffling down the hallway side by side, and Ben half expects Blaine to say something -- he's not sure what, exactly, some comment about the Bel Air or Ben's grandfather, some variant of "I never knew --" But he doesn't. Instead, it's just the two of them, off-balance from the heavy bags they're carrying, crowded together, their shoulders brushing as they make their way down the narrow hall.

Maybe that's best, really. Ben's no good with words anyway.

 

*

 

"Dad?"

Blaine's voice is sleepy, confused, a little bit frightened. If the quiet thumping and scuffling noises coming from the hallway weren't enough to pull Ben out of his half-asleep haze, Blaine's voice would be.

"It's okay," he says, sitting up and swinging his legs to the floor. He glances down, sees Blaine curled up on the air mattress, blankets tangled around him. His head is lifted, but only a little bit, eyes blinking sleepily in the dim light. He barely even looks awake. "I'll take care of it. Go back to sleep, Blaine."

Blaine mumbles something else, a little indistinct, and sinks back into his pillow. Ben crouches down to tousle his son's hair before straightening, taking a deep breath, and heading out into the hallway.

The house is lit by rows of cheap nightlights, one in every electrical outlet; it has been ever since the wandering started. Jacob used to go all over, sometimes even leaving the house, but he doesn't walk as well anymore, and it's limited his movements. As soon as Ben has left his room, he sees his father standing at the end of the hall, staring at the closed door of a linen closet. "Dad?" Ben asks, closing the bedroom door behind him. "Dad, what are you doing?"

"Got turned around," his father mumbles, still staring intently at the door. "Can't find... can't... Don't remember what I was looking for. What the hell was that thing? It was something... something... No. No, I've lost it."

Ben takes a tentative first step forward. "Did you... I could help you find it, if you wanted," he offers.

Jacob turns to look at him underneath lowered eyebrows -- he's glaring, really, and it's almost reassuring. This is how Ben remembers his father -- the two of them fighting. Always, always fighting. "Jesus, Benjamin," he snaps. "How the hell are you supposed to help me when you don't even know what I'm looking for?" Then he shakes his head, sighing. "Doesn't matter. If it was important, I'd remember what it was. It's not important." He shakes his head again, starts the slow process of turning himself around, his hands pressing against the walls, feet shuffling in small steps. Ben finds himself moving in before he realizes what he's doing, one arm draping around Jacob's thick torso, the other pulling Jacob's arm over his shoulders. And just like that, his father isn't fighting anymore.

It hurts more than Ben expects it to, but he doesn't dare show it.

"Okay," he says, when he's gotten them situated. "Now. Where are we going?"

His father actually laughs at that, just a little chuckle, but Ben can't help but feel proud of himself for a moment. He gets that kind of reaction so _rarely_. "Living room," he says, pointing ahead of them. "No point going back to bed. Just keep the woman up anyway, wiggling around. She hates that, me keeping her up like that." He blinks down at Ben as the two of them make their way slowly back down the hallway. "Where's that girl?" he asks, after a second. "That pretty girl. Always used to hang around you. Never understood why she bothered, to be honest."

Ben stiffens slightly, his jaw tensing up. "My _wife_ ," he says, carefully, "is at home. She... She's got a lot on her plate right now. But she sends her love."

This time, Jacob's laugh is something a little bitter, sarcastic. "I'll _bet_ ," he says, dryly. "Shouldn't leave 'em alone that way, Benjamin. They get into trouble. All kinds of trouble. Trust me. I've been there."

"I'm sure Miranda is managing just fine," Ben says, stiffly, and closes his eyes when his father just keeps laughing, little breathless gasps between each slow step.

"I'll _bet_ ," his father drawls, again. "Oh, I'll bet she is."

"Gee, Dad, it's like you're trying to tell me something, but I couldn't possibly imagine what it is," Ben snaps back, his patience starting to slip, and Jacob's arm tightens around his shoulders.

"Easy there, Tiger," he says, pausing for a few seconds, looking around as if trying to get his bearings. The moment gives Ben an unexpected twinge of sympathy; he can't imagine how this must feel for his father, incapable of recognizing the landmarks of his own house. Then Jacob starts moving again, and the moment dies as quickly as it came. "That boy that's been hanging around -- that your boy? Brought him with you?"

Ben grits his teeth. "Yes," he says, quietly. "That's... That's Blaine."

"Doesn't look much like you."

They finally cross into the living room, and Ben takes a deep breath. He knows what his father is getting at, and he's not going to encourage the conversation. They've had this fight before, and it never ends well. "Yes, well. Blaine's always favored his mother," he points out, trying to stay calm.

Jacob studies him for a few seconds, that same disbelieving look that Katie gave him when he first arrived. "Yeah," he says, finally. "Well. So did you. So I guess you two have something in common after all."

Ben stares at his father, briefly. This is something new. This is a fight they've never had before. "Dad?" he asks. "Dad, what are you --"

"Wish she'd stop moving that damn chair around on me," Jacob mutters, blinking at the living room. "Makes me look like a fool. Can't find anything in this house anymore, with her moving things all the time."

The moment's over immediately, and Ben knows better than to try and get it back. "Here, Dad," he says, leading Jacob over and carefully lowering him down. He's heavier than Ben expected, or maybe it's just that he can't carry his own weight anymore, and Ben just barely manages to get his father in the chair without dropping him. Jacob's eyes are already slipping closed as Ben straightens up again. "Did you need anything else? A blanket, or..."

His father waves him off, irritably. "I'm not dying, Benjamin. Not yet, anyway. Go back to bed. I'll be all right here."

There's something particularly horrible about the idea of Jacob spending the night in this chair, alone in his silent living room. Ben might have fought his father his whole life -- there might still be things that the two of them can't talk about without it devolving into a screaming match -- but that doesn't mean that this, this slow decline, isn't killing him. "I could turn on the TV, if you wanted," he suggests, quietly.

Another angry wave of his father's hand; he screws his face up, shaking his head. "God, no. All that noise. Just... Just go to bed, Benjamin. I'm tired of looking at you anyway."

He bends down to kiss his father's forehead, more out of spite than anything else. Jacob doesn't turn away like he might have done sometime years ago, accepts the moment with something almost approaching grace. "'Night, Dad," Ben says, quietly, and turns to leave the room.

His father doesn't say anything; he just grunts as Ben walks away.

Back in the guest bedroom, Blaine is fast asleep, curled up on the air mattress with his hands fisted in the sheets. He's kicked the blanket off; Ben kneels down and tucks him back in again. With the air conditioners running full blast, the house is on the chilly side; he doesn't want his son to wake up shivering. And nights in Arizona can be cool, even in the summer.

For a few seconds, Ben watches Blaine sleep -- the curls tumbled over his head, the long eyelashes splayed across his cheeks. He supposes that he and his son don't look that much alike, but that's not such a bad thing. In fact, it's probably for the best. Ben's always known that he's not particularly handsome, his chin too weak and his eyes too wide, his whole face a little owlish, a little strange. Blaine has strong features, masculine. He's good-looking, the same way that Jacob once was, the way that Ben's brother John still is, and there's a certain comfort in that.

Anyway, most children aren't exact clones of their parents, are they? The Hummels don't look that much alike, and neither do Carole Hudson and her son. Looks don't tell you much about where a child came from, all things being considered. There are other things. More important things.

Ben leans in to press a kiss to Blaine's forehead, and Blaine smiles, burrowing a little further underneath the blanket. The truth is, it really doesn't matter what Blaine looks like. Ben's proud to have such a beautiful son; of course he is. But he would be proud of Blaine anyway. Because Blaine is _his_ , and that's enough.

After a few more moments spent watching Blaine sleep, Ben pushes himself back up to his feet, goes out to the linen closet in the hallway, and pulls out one of his grandmother's old crocheted afghans. He takes it out to his father, still in the living room, slouched in his favorite chair. Jacob's eyes are closed, but there's no telling whether or not he's actually asleep. He's already faked sleep at least three times today, just to get out of conversations he doesn't want any part of. Ben would blame it on the illness, but there's no real reason to. Jacob's been doing this for as long as Ben can remember.

Whether he's awake or not, it doesn't matter. Not really.

Ben spreads the blanket out over Jacob's still body, tucking it carefully behind his shoulders so that it doesn't slip during the night, then crouching at his father's feet to make sure it covers every inch of him. His father doesn't even twitch, doesn't stir or in any way acknowledge Ben's presence, but then, Ben wasn't really expecting him to. That's not why he's doing this, after all.

He stands over his father for a moment, checking to make sure that he's fully covered, tucked in and secure and safe. And when he feels sure, he goes back to the guest bedroom, climbs into bed, and closes his eyes again.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blaine and his father travel to Arizona to visit family. It doesn't go the way that they expected it to; but then again, maybe that's not such a bad thing.

Ben wakes up early, unable to sleep well in a strange bed, in a strange house, with his father sitting in that dark, silent living room and the memory of their stilted conversation still weighing on him heavily. Blaine doesn't stir as his father gets out of bed; he's out like a light, clutching the blanket in his hands as if he's afraid that someone will take it from him. But he's smiling, too, smiling in his sleep, and something in Ben's chest aches to see him like that. He's just so _young_ sometimes.   
  
For a few moments, Ben crouches by the air mattress and watches his son breathing, thinks about how much time he's spent doing that over the years, like he's still afraid that Blaine will just... stop if no one's around to keep an eye on him. Then he sighs and starts rummaging around his bag for fresh clothes. Because while he _is_ a father, he's also a son. And that means more responsibilities, ones that he hasn't always been so good about upholding.  
  
The house is quiet. Ben can hear his parents talking softly in their bedroom, but can't make out the words and doesn't want to eavesdrop, so he heads for the kitchen instead. Katie's already there, her dark, curly hair pulled back loosely, staring intently at the cupboards. "There's coffee," she says, not turning around. "If you want some."  
  
"Thanks," he replies, but doesn't move towards the coffee pot. He leans against the table, watching his sister for a moment. She closes one cupboard, opens another, sighs. "Is... something wrong?" he asks, after a few seconds.  
  
"We're out of cereal," she snaps, obviously frustrated. "She always does this... she always says that she's going to the store, but then she doesn't, or she doesn't get everything, and I can't go myself because I don't want to leave her alone with Dad because that never ends well, but I can't take him with me, either, because that's worse, and..." Another sigh, and she pushes her hands through her hair, pulling strands free from her ponytail. "And it's not like I'm not happy that you're here, Ben, because I am. I really, honestly am. But there's just so much... I just get so _tired_ sometimes. And I don't really feel up to cooking breakfast for five people today. I'm sorry, but I just don't."  
  
"So... don't," Ben suggests, making his way cautiously to Katie's side. He rests his hand on her shoulder and she leans into his touch just a little bit, silently encouraging him. "We'll do something else. We could go out, or..."  
  
Katie gives him that disbelieving look again. "No," she says. "No, we really can't. Seriously, Ben, you haven't tried taking him out of the house lately. I have. It's never... We can't take him out, Ben."  
  
"Fine," Ben says, and keeps his hand on her shoulder, patting it a little bit. "Then I'll cook. I'm perfectly capable; you know that. Besides, breakfast has always been my specialty. You can ask around. Ask Blaine; I've been making his breakfast for years, and he's never complained about it."  
  
"You make breakfast, when you're at home?" Katie asks, still watching him, her eyes a little curious now. "Every day?"   
  
Ben shrugs and head for the refrigerator. When Katie doesn't try to stop him, he starts rifling through. Not really enough eggs for all five of them, but there's always plenty of bread -- his mother loves baking, does it incessantly. And if the milk hasn't gone sour... He sniffs it, decides it's all right. French toast it is. "Well," he says. "Not every day. But... since Blaine has to drive to Westerville for school, and I work in Columbus, so we're always up early, during the school year. And then this summer he's been working at King's Island, and I've had the problem solving courses for the PhD candidates, plus teaching at the Ross Program, so... Why should Miranda have to wake up early just to cook for us, when I can do it myself? It doesn't make any sense. So, yes. I make breakfast. Some men do things like that, Katie. It's not actually that shocking a concept."  
  
"I wasn't --" Katie sighs and sinks into a chair at the kitchen island, her eyes following Ben as he moves around the kitchen, getting set up. Bread in the breadbox, a full loaf waiting to be cut. A bowl from the cabinet next to the sink, a whisk from the drawer. Cinnamon and nutmeg and vanilla pulled down from their respective shelves. The nice thing about his mother is that she's a creature of habit -- every kitchen of every house she's ever lived in has always been laid out the same way. Ben doesn't have to have spent long here to know where everything is.   
  
"Do you remember when Mom went on that trip to Germany?" Katie asks, unexpectedly. "With her parents? And she wanted us to go, but Dad was funny about it... I think he said he was worried about us missing school or something; I don't remember what it was, just that we couldn't go and Mom wouldn't stand up to him, and I was furious at the both of them. There was a huge fight -- I told them that I hated them both and they weren't really my parents. Dad just laughed at me. Do you remember that?"  
  
"Vaguely," Ben says, frowning at her for just a second before he goes back to slicing bread. "I remember Mom being gone for a while, coming back with... you know, beer steins and things like that. And I remember you telling Dad you hated him, but that might have been from something else. I mean, you _did_... You said it more than once, when we were kids. Why do you ask?"  
  
Katie shrugs, watching his hands a little too intently for his comfort. "She was gone for two weeks," she says, quietly. "That whole time, I don't think Dad set foot in the kitchen, not even once. He didn't even make coffee there; he'd wait until he was at the office. I had to do most of the cooking. John helped, a little, but he was already..." She shakes her head, and it occurs to Ben how strange it is, that everyone feels comfortable chiding him for his wife's absence, but no one ever brings up his older brother, who hasn't been around for _years_ now. "You tried to help, of course. I remember you standing on a stool at the sink, washing the dishes for me. God, you couldn't have been more than seven or eight. So tiny."  
  
Ben contemplates the amount of sliced bread on his cutting board, then shrugs and decides to finish off the loaf. There'll be another one in the freezer, anyway. There always is.   
  
"I used to think it was kind of strange, you know," Katie continues, thoughtfully. She pulls the bowl over to her side of the kitchen island, starts cracking the eggs in one by one. "That out of the three of us, you were the only one to start a family. But then, I guess... I don't know. I mean, it makes sense in a way, doesn't it? That out of the three of us, it'd be you? Because, well. I mean, _you_..."  
  
She falls silent, chewing on her lip. Ben reaches out after a little bit, taking the bowl and whisk from her hands.   
  
And the thing is, he knows he shouldn't press. Whatever she's talking about (and she's talking about _something_ ), it's almost certainly something he's better off not knowing. Most things in this family are like that, really. But he still can't stop himself from asking "What about _me_ , Katie?"  
  
"You're just..." She shrugs. "I don't like Dad that much. You know that. But I'm _like_ him, Ben. I always have been. And John's just..." She shakes her head again. "But you're not. You never were."  
  
What's strange is that, for some reason, he almost wants to argue with her about it. He's not entirely sure why; he's never really _wanted_ to be like his father, has he? But there's something in the way she says it, the way she seems to be hinting at something, that makes him want to argue. That makes him want to say that, whatever she's implying, it's not true.   
  
But he can't find the words, and just when he thinks he's about to, Blaine slips into the kitchen, his hair still sleep-rumpled, bare feet padding along the tiles. "Morning," he mumbles, crossing to Ben's side like he used to when he was younger, when family gatherings made him nervous and he had to hide behind his father in order to feel safe. Ben can't think of a time when his own father made him feel that way. He supposes that would prove Katie right, if she only knew about it, and resolves to never tell her. "Ooh. French toast?"  
  
"That's the plan, anyway," Ben says, and nudges Blaine with his shoulder before he turns away to the stove, getting a pan set up, cutting butter in so it can melt. Blaine follows after him with the egg mixture, then hovers at his shoulder, watching him work.   
  
And it's true enough, Ben supposes. He's not his father. Because his father doesn't do these things. But even after all this time, there is a small, yearning part of him that wishes he would, just once.   
  
Blaine hooks his chin over Ben's shoulder, like he _knows_ , and Ben sighs and tries to be happy with what he has, without wishing for more.  
  
  
*  
  
  
There isn't very much to do in Arizona, not for a teenage boy stuck in a one-story house with his middle-aged father and two elderly grandparents, anyway. Ben can't help but feel a little bit guilty about that. Up until now, Blaine's summer has been so _full_ , performing at King's Island, spending time with Kurt and his other friends, falling in love for the first time. Everything here must seem so gray and dull by comparison.   
  
But Blaine, being himself, seems determined to make the best of it.   
  
He's curled up with his grandmother again, the two of them flipping through photo albums and chatting while Jacob slumps in his chair, pretending to nap, and Ben stares down at his book on the other end of the couch. He's not reading, of course; he's too busy listening, quietly absorbing the conversation between Blaine and his grandmother, straining to hear the faint, snuffling sound of his father breathing. Part of it, of course, is that he promised Katie that he'd keep an eye on things while she went out to run errands; he had to, or she'd never have left the house. But he thinks he'd be watching his father anyway, even if she was there. He can't not.  
  
It baffles him, sometimes, that Katie thinks that the two of them are so different. They're both natural-born worriers, after all. Even with their father; even after everything they've been through, they can't help but worry about him. And God knows, the way they grew up, that can't be nurture talking. It's nature, _their_ nature. He can't understand why she doesn't see that.  
  
"And there you are with your father," Ben's mother says. "In his old office. Do you remember that office, Benjamin? It was so _tiny_. And then you put all those baby things in so you could have Blaine with you, the playpen and everything. I can't imagine how you managed to fit your students in. You could barely walk around in there."  
  
"Yes, well." Ben pushes his glasses up his nose and pretends to be engrossed in his book. It still embarrasses him a little, the way his mother talks about Blaine's childhood. It's not that he's bothered by the amount of time he and Blaine spent together; honestly, he misses those days, that sense of closeness. But his mother treats it like a joke, like it's hilarious that a man might care for his own child, and Ben hates that almost as much as he hates his father's outright disdain. "It's not often that you work out a theorem while walking around. Usually it's done while sitting. Anyway, have you ever thought that might have been the point? That I brought Blaine in so I wouldn't have to deal with my students?"  
  
"Dad," Blaine says, but he sounds pleased. "Really? You... You brought me in to work with you? To... to classes, and everything?"  
  
Ben turns the corner of his page in, marking it, and sets the book aside. He can't say he's exactly comfortable talking about this with his own parents right there, ready to jump in with their own comments, twisting everything the way they always do. But it's better than letting his parents take over entirely, which they will do if he gives them the opening, so. "A few times," he admits, although it's not exactly true. As a matter of fact, Blaine spent so much time in that office during his first two years of life that Ben's first PhD candidate actually thanked him in the notes to her dissertation. "Mostly on days when I was there for advising appointments, one-on-one meetings. Just so your mother could -- She was quite ill, after you were born, and it wasn't always easy for her to --"  
  
"She wasn't sick," Jacob announces, cutting Ben off, and Ben takes a deep breath, grits his teeth. He doesn't want to fight now, not in front of Blaine, but he can't let his father talk about Miranda that way, either. That's not any better for Blaine to hear. "There was never anything wrong with that woman but laziness, and you know it, Benjamin."  
  
"She was _never_ \--" Ben protests, trying to keep his voice level, but his mother shushes him.  
  
"Now, Jacob," Ben's mother says, but it's half-hearted; there's no real force behind it. "You know that's not fair. Some women don't deal with motherhood well, and --"  
  
"Not fair," Jacob repeats, his eyes opening. Ben swears he can see them glittering with malice; he wishes he didn't feel like his father was _enjoying_ this so much. "Ben damn near lost his job because he had to drag that baby to work with him every day; how's _that_ fair?"  
  
"That's not what happened, Dad, and you _know_ \--"  
  
"And how is that good for the kid, Emily?" Jacob's on a roll now, positively gleeful; Ben chokes on his anger, so furious that he can't even speak. "I know Ben's trying to do the right thing, but there's a _reason_ families are the way they are, with the mother at home and the father out earning a living. Ben keeps getting things twisted up like this, that boy's not going to know what he's supposed to be. Probably turn into a damn sissy. And you know I'm right, Emily. You know that."  
  
"Jacob," Ben's mother says, quietly, glancing at Ben, then at Blaine. "Jacob, dear, you shouldn't --"  
  
Blaine pushes himself from the couch, and he's shaking. He's so upset that he's actually shaking. "Excuse me," he mutters, before stumbling out of the living room, out through the front door, running from the house, from his own grandparents.   
  
Ben's on his feet before the door bangs shut, but he doesn't move to follow his son right away, stays staring down at Jacob as Jacob blinks up at him. "Listen to me," Ben says, quietly. He doesn't shout. He doesn't scream. He keeps his voice quiet and calm. "I know that... That you grew up in a different time, and things were... Things were different for you. And that kind of talk was acceptable, back then. But it isn't now. And I don't ever, ever want to hear you say those words around my son. Never again."  
  
Jacob just stares back at him, eyes narrowed. "What're you trying to prove, Benjamin?" he asks, quietly.  
  
Ben swallows hard. "The next time you call my son a 'sissy' or... or anything else," he says, trying to keep his voice from shaking. "I'm taking him out of this house. And I won't ever bring him back again until you're gone. You can say what you want about me, or... Or even Miranda. It's different with us. But leave Blaine out of it." He turns without giving his father a chance to reply, hurries out after his son.   
  
The sky is fiercely blue, the sun unrelenting; Ben can feel himself wilting even as the door closes behind him, but then there's Blaine to think about. Blaine slouching on the steps in front of his grandparents' house, staring out at the cacti on the lawn. He stiffens up just a little bit as Ben lowers himself down to sit next to him. "Dad, I --"  
  
"It's okay, Blaine," Ben says, quietly. Two years ago, Blaine would have been in tears over this, red-faced and sniffling with anger and humiliation; today, he's almost calm. It takes so much more to get him to that point nowadays; he's learned to deal with so much... With so many things that no one should ever have to deal with.  
  
"I just..." Blaine takes a deep breath. "I mean, I know he's starting to... I know it's hard for him. And he's angry and he's scared and he can't help it; I know that. And I know I shouldn't take it personally; I just --"  
  
"Blaine," Ben says, staring at his son. "Please tell me that you're not apologizing for what he said to you."  
  
Blaine finally looks at Ben, his whole body slumped, eyes wounded and bright with unshed tears. "I'm not," he says, but it sounds unsure. "I mean, I guess I just... I shouldn't have just run out like that, and I --"  
  
Ben sighs and drapes an arm around his son's waist, pulling him in. They're both sweaty and sticky, and it can't be comfortable, but Blaine leans in to his father's shoulder with a sort of gratitude, an eagerness that Ben wasn't expecting, and it almost hurts. "Stop that," he says. "You don't have to listen to anyone who says those things to you. I don't care if it's one of your friends or a teacher or even your grandfather. You don't have to... There's no reason to be polite to someone who's hurting you, Blaine. None at all."   
  
There's a shaky breath at that, and a quiet sniffle, and Blaine's head tips onto Ben's shoulder, his hair tickling against Ben's chin and neck. Ben pulls his son in tighter. "I told them that we'd leave if he kept talking that way," he continues, quietly. "And I'd like to think that he... But honestly Blaine, I don't know if that will stop him. If he even remembers that any of this has happened, which he might not. We could leave now, if you thought that would be better. We don't have to stay."  
  
"Our flight doesn't leave for two more days," Blaine whispers. "And we don't have a hotel anymore."  
  
Ben half-shrugs, one shoulder rising and falling, the other staying in place so that Blaine doesn't get jostled. "We'll find a new hotel. And I'm sure we could keep ourselves busy somehow. There's... tourist things. I think the Grand Canyon is pretty close; we could go see that. And there's other... rock formations. And cliffs. And... I don't know. I believe your mother said the spas around here are very nice."  
  
Blaine actually laughs a little bit. "Those all sound like things you hate," he points out. Ben just smiles, pressing his cheek to the top of his son's hair. "And I don't... I just feel like..." He sighs. "I feel like if we go now, then we'll never see him again," he says, quietly. "And I don't... I don't want _this_ to be the last time I see him. Not... not like this."  
  
"Okay," Ben says, quietly. "If that's what you want, Blaine."  
  
"What about you, Dad?" Blaine asks, quietly. "What do you want?"  
  
He wants a lot of things, actually. He wants to hear from his brother, to know that he's all right and that he doesn't hate them anymore. He wants Katie to have more than this life, playing nurse to their parents as they get older. He wants his mother to stop avoiding things, to just _talk_ to him seriously for once. He wants his father to give a damn. He wants to start over, to have a real family, a real home.   
  
But there's no use wanting things he can't have, and anyway, the road has brought him here, with Blaine, and isn't that enough for one man? "Iced tea," he says, finally. "Iced tea sounds really good right now, doesn't it?"  
  
"Dad," Blaine says, pushing at his shoulder lightly, but not enough to actually push him away. Ben sways a little, faking it more than anything else, then comes back in again.  
  
"I want you to be happy," Ben says, quietly. "And I want you to be safe. And if you feel like we can do that here, Blaine, then we'll stay. Because that's all I really want."  
  
Blaine sniffles again, finally wraps his arm around Ben. " _Dad_ ," he says, a little choked up.   
  
"Right here," Ben whispers, and gives Blaine a little squeeze, and closes his eyes. He's sweating so badly that he honestly feels like his glasses are going to slip right off his face, and the sun is too bright and the cement steps of the house are too hot and absolutely nothing is comfortable right now, and he's pretty sure he wouldn't leave this spot for a million dollars.  
  
The two of them are quiet together for a long time; Ben can't help thinking about how long it's been since they've done this, since they've sat together like this. He's not sure when it stopped, really, but he knows _why_ \-- his father's voice, echoing in his head, _stop coddling the boy, Benjamin_ and _what are you trying to prove_ , the feeling that he was weak somehow, for needing this so badly. The fear that he would make Blaine weak, too. But he's starting to think that maybe his definition of _weakness_ could use some work.   
  
"You're right," Blaine says, finally. "Iced tea sounds really, really good right now."  
  
Ben laughs, feeling suddenly shaky and light-headed in a way that hopefully has nothing to do with the heat. "Ready to head inside?" he asks, quietly.  
  
Blaine tucks a little bit more firmly against his father's side, holds him a little harder. "I... Not yet," he says, finally. "Just... Just a little bit longer?"  
  
"Okay," Ben says, and holds Blaine just as tightly as Blaine is holding him.  
  
  
*  
  
If he didn't know any better, he would swear his father was doing it on purpose.   
  
When Ben and Blaine had finally come back into the house, sweat-soaked and leaning on each other, it was like the entire argument had never happened at all. Ben's mother was still poring over her picture albums, his father pretending to sleep in his chair. No one had mentioned a single word that had been said -- not Jacob's accusations against Miranda, nor what he had called Blaine, and not Ben's sincere threat to leave and never come back. It was over, said and done. But the tension lingered, in the way Blaine sat on Ben's left instead of his right, using his father as a buffer, protection against his grandparents. The way Ben's mother kept looking at them, a little guilty, a little fearful. The anger and worry still burning in Ben's gut. Even Katie, when she came back, watched the four of them with nervous eyes and hung back, keeping herself carefully out of the way. Only Jacob, when he finally deigned to show some signs of alertness, seemed unaware that anything had happened.  
  
Except.   
  
Now that the others have finally gone to bed, lying peacefully in the darkness, Jacob is awake and wandering again. Only it's louder than last night, each shuffling step and heavy press of his hands against the wall echoing through the stillness of the house. He mutters to himself, the sound clearly audible even through walls and doors. It's almost like he thinks Ben will simply ignore him if he isn't making a big enough fuss to wake the whole house.  
  
Really, Ben would have thought his own father knew him better than that.   
  
Suppressing a sigh, he slides out of bed, padding as quietly as he can towards the door. He's only just laid his fingers on the doorknob when Blaine's voice stops him. "Dad?"  
  
Ben turns, seeing Blaine propped up on his elbows on the air mattress. "It's fine, Blaine," he says, quietly. "I'll just get Grandpa settled down, and I'll be right back. Just a couple of minutes."  
  
"You don't have to," Blaine protests, pushing himself all the way up until he's sitting. Something about the gesture, about Blaine's words, reminds Ben of Miranda. She's always telling him that, that he doesn't _have_ to. That he doesn't have to do anything.  
  
But he does, that's the thing. She's never understood it, really, but he does.   
  
"Grandma and Aunt Katie have to deal with this enough as it is," he explains, patiently as he can. "It's time someone else stepped in, at least for a little bit."  
  
"But it doesn't have to be you." Blaine bites his lip, hesitates a little bit, then firms up his jaw and looks his father in the eye. "I could do it," he offers. "I mean, I could... I can do it, Dad. So you don't have to."  
  
Ben crosses back over to the air mattress, kneeling down so he can look his son in the eye. "No," he says, and reaches out on instinct to cup Blaine's cheek in his hand. Blaine's skin is already prickly with stubble, such a strange, adult thing. But his eyes are still earnest, almost childlike in their sincerity. "No, Blaine, you can't."  
  
"But why?" Blaine asks, a little hurt, even as he leans into his father's touch.  
  
"Because I won't let you." Ben pats Blaine's cheek, then withdraws, pulling back up to his feet again. "Go back to sleep, Blaine. I won't be gone but a few minutes, I promise."  
  
"Dad," Blaine says, still sitting up on the air mattress, looking up at him. "I love you."  
  
He says it so _sadly_ , like he doesn't think he'll hear it back, and to be honest, he has his reasons. Ben can't think of the last time they'd said those words to each other. He'd said it all the time when Blaine was small, but it had gotten harder and harder as he'd grown, started to seem less and less appropriate than it should have, less natural, and finally, he'd just given up. "I..." Ben takes a deep breath and crouches back down again; it's important that they do this face-to-face, eye-to-eye. As equals. "I love you too," he whispers, and leans in to press his lips to Blaine's forehead, that old familiar gesture. The only difference is that this time, Blaine's awake for it.  
  
As differences go, it's actually kind of a big one.   
  
Blaine watches him, wide-eyed, as he pulls back. "Dad," he says, one last time, but he sounds a little hesitant now.   
  
Ben reaches out and ruffles his hair, watches him duck away. "I'm not going to yell, or fight with him, or anything like that," he promises. "It's just... It's hard for him to find things, sometimes. So I'll help him get settled, and then I'll be right back. Okay?"  
  
There's a thump on the wall, deliberately goading, and Blaine flinches. Ben steadies him with one hand on his shoulder. "I'll be right back," he says again, and stands, hesitating for just a second before he turns away.  
  
This time, Blaine lets him go.  
  
Jacob hasn't even made it to the linen closet yet; he's leaning on the wall outside the guest bedroom like he's worn himself out. Ben brushes past him, going to the closet on his own and pulling out an afghan. "You don't need to be so impatient," he sighs, pulling his father's arm over his shoulders and wrapping his arm around his father's waist. Two days of this, and it's already falling into a habit. "One of us would have come and gotten you. You know that."  
  
Jacob snorts, leaning heavily on Ben. It hits him again, how weak his father is now, how different from the man he used to be. He can't understand how it's so painful every single time. "How the hell would you know?" Jacob asks, but he sounds amused, rather than angry. "You're not _here_ , Benjamin. Maybe they just let me bounce off the walls every night until I pass out. You don't know that."  
  
"I know _Katie_ , Dad," Ben points out, shifting his grip as the two of them pass slowly into the living room, one careful step at a time. "She could never ignore you. No matter how much I wish she would."  
  
Jacob laughs again, then stops, frowns. "Now where the hell..." He shakes his head. "God damn that woman," he mutters. "Don't know what I ever did to her, to make her treat me like this."  
  
"You married her, Dad," Ben says, and starts to lead his father over to the chair. "That's what you did. You married her."  
  
" _Someone's_ bitter tonight," Jacob observes. He lets Ben get him settled, the two of them just barely managing to get him comfortably seated, then looks up at Ben with sharp, shrewd eyes. "Maybe the boy's not a sissy," he says, finally, and Ben sighs and shakes out the afghan. "Hell, what do I know anyway? I'm just some old man. No one takes me seriously anymore."  
  
Ben just shakes his head and drapes the blanket over his father's shoulders, spreading it carefully so that not even Jacob's toes stick out. He might hate his father sometimes, but that doesn't mean he wants him to freeze. "You know that's not true, Dad," he says, quietly.  
  
"No, but it should be." Jacob settles himself in the chair, still watching Ben, and Ben waits for him, patient. "You're not going through on that threat of yours, you know," Jacob says, finally. "You won't have to."  
  
"Don't make promises you can't keep," Ben says, and turns away. He doesn't want apologies, not now. He's not ready yet.  
  
Jacob chuckles; it's a strange sound to hear in the silence of the house. "You don't even know what I'm talking about, Benjamin, so don't make assumptions." Something about the way he says it makes Ben tense up; he feels like he should turn around, but he doesn't. He can't. "You think I like this any more than you do?" Jacob asks, his voice a little sharper. "I was a doctor, Ben. And I was damn good at it. Now I can't even get the mail. Even if I could walk on my own, I can't... I get out in the yard, and I can't remember how to get back into the house. And I'm just getting started. A year from now, three years from now, _five_... I've seen what happens to guys like me, Ben. Bunch of sad old bastards wandering around a nursing home, pissing themselves and crying. That's not how I want to end up. I've got too much pride for that."  
  
Ben swallows hard, keeps his back to his father, because he knows what his father's going to say and he doesn't _dare_ let the old man see what that does to him. He _can't_. "You know Mom and Katie wouldn't put you in a home, Dad," he says, trying desperately to forestall the rest of the conversation. "They'd never do something like that to you."  
  
"Yeah, they would," Jacob says. "Maybe they wouldn't want to, but they would. They'd have to, sooner or later." He pauses, probably just for effect. "Except they're not going to, because I'm not going to let it get that far. Even I'm not cruel enough to put them through that."  
  
"No, but you're certainly cruel enough to --"   
  
"This isn't cruelty, Ben," his father says, gravely. "Believe me. You might not appreciate it right now, but... This is me doing you a favor. _All_ of you."  
  
Ben watches the living room blur in front of him. He takes a deep, shaky breath, then another -- his father stays silent behind him, waiting it out. "So this is it, then?" Ben asks, quietly. "This... This is..."  
  
He can't finish the sentence.  
  
"You're taking this a lot harder than I thought you would, Benjamin," his father says. It's not concerned, or even amused, just a flat statement of fact. "But give it some time. You'll get used to the idea."  
  
"I'm sorry; I wasn't aware... I wasn't aware that I'd have the... the chance to do so," Ben says, just barely able to get the words out. His throat is sealing itself shut; he blinks as fast as he can, but he can't make his vision clear again.  
  
"I'm not gonna jump off a bridge tomorrow, Ben," his father says, and the amusement is back in his voice. "So don't get your hopes up. There's time. Not much of it, but there's time."  
  
"Oh." Ben breathes in, breathes out again, tries hard to steady himself. He has never thought, not even for a moment, that he would be glad when his father died. At the same time, he wasn't expecting the idea to affect him this much. But he tries to keep himself together. His father is attempting to do the right thing, after all. Maybe it's ridiculous, but Ben wants him to feel like he's succeeding. "Thank you," he says, finally. "For... for letting me know."  
  
His father just sighs. "Don't bother. I know you hate me for doing this to you right now. But you needed to know. It'll be easier, in the end."  
  
"Of course." Ben closes his eyes for just a moment, trying to pull himself together. "I think... I think I'll head back to bed now, Dad. If you'll excuse me." He doesn't wait for a reply -- he doesn't really need to, after all -- just heads back down the hallway on legs that are only just able to carry him, stumbling back towards the guest bedroom.  
  
He's worried that Blaine will be sitting up on the air mattress waiting for him, that he'll see his father in this state, the wreck that he is right now. Or worse, that he's somehow overheard the whole thing, that he _knows_ , because Blaine is not the sort of boy to take this thing well. But Blaine's not on the air mattress at all -- he's crawled up into Ben's bed, tucked against the wall and out of the way.   
  
Ben thinks, briefly, that he might as well just take the air mattress for the night -- perhaps Blaine was just uncomfortable, perhaps he just wanted... But that's not the point; even Ben's not clueless enough to think otherwise. And as much as Ben might want to hide himself away right now, give himself a chance to regroup, he's becoming increasingly aware of how much Blaine _needs_ him. He can't let his son down. Not after... Not after what's been done to him. So Ben climbs into the bed, lays flat on his back next to his son, and waits.  
  
It doesn't take very long. Almost as soon as the bed dips under Ben's weight, Blaine's rolling onto his back, his hand reaching out. Their fingers tangle, squeeze tightly, and Ben thinks that this will be what it is like, when he stands at his father's funeral. Blaine will be on his right side, and Miranda on his left, and they will hold his hands as he watches his father's casket being lowered slowly into the ground, and it's too much to think about, too much to handle. He turns his face away towards the door and lets the tears start to slip, sliding sideways down his cheeks, into the pillow.  
  
"Dad," Blaine whispers, and curls up next to him, his free hand wrapping around Ben's arm, his head resting on Ben's shoulder. "Dad, what did he _say_ to you?"  
  
"Just." Ben's voice falters; he squeezes Blaine's hand tightly. "Just know that... we're not going to be like this, Blaine. I promise you, whatever happens... I won't let this happen to us. Not to us."  
  
" _Dad,_ " Blaine murmurs, and he clings to his father, and this is how it will be, when the day comes that Ben no longer has a father of his own. Blaine will hold his hand, and help him through it, and he'll survive, because he has his son to help him.


	3. All the Best Cowboys Have Daddy Issues, Part Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blaine and his father travel to Arizona to visit family. It doesn't go the way that they expected it to; but then again, maybe that's not such a bad thing.

In the morning, Katie takes one look at Ben, at his red-rimmed eyes and wrinkled clothes, and sighs, reaching out to tug him into the kitchen and steer him towards a chair. "I have to say I'm surprised," she says, pushing Ben down when he can't quite make himself sit right away. "I thought he'd wait until tonight to tell you. You know, for dramatic effect."

"How..." He glances back over at Katie, busying herself with the coffee pot. "How long have you known?"

"A few months now," she says, absently. "You take yours black, right? I didn't see you put anything in yesterday."

He didn't have to -- Blaine had done it for him. But he only takes a little sugar, anyway, not enough to make a real difference. "Black is fine, thanks," he says, and wraps his hands gratefully around the mug when she hands it to him.

Katie watches him for a few seconds, her hand resting between his shoulder blades. "We had to go to a few different doctors," she says. "And then a few different pharmacies, just to be on the safe side. He says there's no way for the dosage to fail, but..." She shakes her head, and walks away, pulling out pans and bowls, getting ready to make breakfast. "I don't think Mom really believes he's going to do it. I think she... But, honestly? I've been waiting for this since he first got the diagnosis. Can't believe he's stuck it out as long as he has."

"And John?" Ben asks. "Does he --"

"Yeah," Katie says, pulling down a bag of flour. There's a little puff of white when she opens it. "It took a little while for me to find him, but... Yeah. He knows." She dips a measuring cup into the flour; it comes out overfull, and she levels it off with a knife. "You know what I never understood?" she asks, after a few seconds. "What the hell did Dad ever do to him, you know? John was always the favorite. Why does he get to be the one to --" She sighs, cracking an egg with unnecessary force. "He should _be_ here. Out of all of us, he should be here."

"There's still time," Ben points out, but it comes out shakier than he would have expected, more uncertain. "He could still..."

"Oh, _Ben_." Katie turns and looks at him over her shoulder, and she's smiling, but her eyes are sad. "Anyway, it doesn't matter now. Dad's already changed the will. He wants me to take over the farm; I told him we should at least _ask_ you -- I mean, I know you've got your house, and your job, and everything, but..."

"Is that what you're going to do?" Ben asks, hesitant. "You and Mom, are you going to --"

Katie shakes her head. "I don't know what Mom's going to do," she says. "She has this friend, Juliet... She lives in this apartment complex -- you know, assisted living, with aides on call and everything. They have a pool. Bingo on Tuesdays. Mom seems kind of taken by the idea. I don't know; it might be good for her. I always wondered why she didn't..." Katie's voice cracks unexpectedly; she picks up a fresh carton of milk, sets it down again. "I'm not _ready_ , Ben," she whispers, bracing her hands on the countertop like she couldn't stand otherwise. Her head hangs down, strands of hair dropping over her face, screening it from view. "I thought I was, but I'm just... I'm _not_."

Ben's on his feet before he even has time to think about it, stepping around the kitchen island and reaching out to pull his sister in close. Her arms stay folded between them, a sort of barrier; Ben does his best to ignore it. "Come back to Ohio," he says, resting his cheek against her hair. "We'll visit you all the time. You won't be lonely."

"You've got your own life, Ben," Katie whispers; she doesn't pull back, but she doesn't lean in, either. "I don't want to..."

"You won't," he says, and keeps holding her, loosely. "Just... Just think about it? It'd be nice, having you close again. I'd like that." He glances up at that, and isn't surprised to see Blaine leaning in the doorway, watching them with his arms folded across his chest. He looks a little nervous, and very, very young, but he nods when Ben says, "And I don't think I'm the only one."

Katie finally slips her arms out from between the two of them, wraps them around Ben's back, letting go just a little bit. "Have you told him yet?" she asks. "Blaine, I mean. Have you told him what's going to --"

Ben licks his lips, nervous; he keeps his eyes on his son. "Not yet," he admits, and Blaine's eyebrows furrow together. "Soon, though. Before we go home."

Blaine nods, then withdraws. Ben pulls his sister close for a moment, then lets go, giving her a few moments to wipe her eyes and compose herself before Blaine comes back into the room. "Okay," Ben says. "How many pancakes are we doing here? Single batch, or double?"

"Double," Katie says, still a little shaky, and watches as Ben pours milk into the measuring cup, adds it to the batter. "It's... Grandma Eikmeyer's recipe. Although I think you already knew that."

"I kind of guessed," Ben says, and smiles at her before adding the eggs. His glasses slip down his nose as he mixes the batter together, and he tries to push them back up with his shoulder, fails. Katie laughs at him, reaching out with one long, lightly floured finger to push his glasses back into place.

They don't say anything after that, but they stay smiling at each other as they work together, side-by-side. Ben thinks, briefly, about saying something, about telling his sister that they'll be all right when this is all over, that the two of them will survive this. But then Blaine's slipping back into the room, watching Ben and Katie with wide, worried eyes, and the last thing Ben wants to do is restart the conversation. And judging by the way Katie shakes her head at Ben, takes the pancake batter from his hands and pushes him gently towards his son, she already knows anyway.

 

*

 

His father doesn't eat breakfast with the rest of them that morning, which is something of a relief and yet, at the same time, is worrying. Of course, _everything_ is worrying now. Now that Ben knows what's going to happen ( _this is me doing you a favor_ ), he can't stop... thinking about it, almost expecting it. He doubts his father will do anything now; he _did_ say that there was time, and although he didn't specify how much there would be, Ben's relatively certain that it will, at least, be more than a few hours. But still, not long. Weeks, maybe. At most, a few months. Before Thanksgiving, that's for certain. Ben and Miranda and Blaine always come here for Thanksgiving; Jacob knows that. He wouldn't have bothered saying anything now if he was planning to be alive then. So, November. November at the latest.

Ben wonders if he'll be ready by then. Probably not.

His mother comes up behind him, rests a hand on his shoulder. "You look so tired, dear," she says. "Are you sure you couldn't stay a little longer? I'm sure you could use the vacation."

On the other side of the kitchen island, Blaine chokes on his coffee; his aunt Katie sighs and thumps him on the back, rubbing between his shoulder blades until the coughing spasm passes. Ben very nearly smiles, but manages to force it back.

"I'm sorry," he says, looking up at his mother. "But the fall quarter's about to begin, and I've got a lot of things to do before the PhD candidates take their qualifying exams, and then I've still got my regular classes to prepare for. If I could, I would, but..."

"That school works you too hard, Benjamin," his mother says, rubbing at his shoulders. "I still can't believe they had you teaching summer school again this year. Really, there must be someone else who can --"

Blaine coughs again, more deliberately this time, and Ben looks at his son, shakes his head. He's spent fifteen years trying to explain to his mother that the University works on a different schedule than a traditional high school, that summer sessions are the norm rather than the exception, and it's never gotten through. There's no point in trying anymore. "Well," he says, instead. "I suppose I'll just have to keep plugging away at my definitive proof of the Riemann hypothesis, then. So I can become a mathematical celebrity and give up this life of toil and struggle."

Katie lets out an unladylike snort.

Ben's mother just blinks at him. "Honestly, Benjamin, I just don't know what to do with you," she says. "Anyway, your father's in the bedroom; he says he needs to go over some papers with you. All these forms and things, he's been fussing with them lately. _I_ don't know; I thought that was what we have lawyers for, but you know your father. Has to have his hands in everything. But why don't you just go see what he wants, keep him busy while Katie and I start getting everything ready. I think we _should_ have what we need for the cake, but... Oh, and Blaine, dear, you can help us! You don't mind, do you? Your father always liked to help in the kitchen, when he was your age. I used to say he was my other daughter." She flushes immediately. "Not that I ever -- of course, there's nothing wrong with a man who knows how to --"

"I know what you meant, Grandma," Blaine says, but his eyes are settled on his father; Ben nods at him, and tries to smile. "And I..." Blaine manages a smile of his own, larger than Ben's, more polished. "I'd be happy to... to help." But his eyes follow his father as Ben stands up to take his plate to the sink; he turns his head, and watches Ben walk out into the hallway, like he's worried that something's about to happen.

Which, to be fair, is probably a good worry to have.

For some reason, it's his mother's comment about the cake that sticks in Ben's head -- he'd forgotten, somehow, that today was his father's birthday. Which seems a little ridiculous -- after all, that's the whole reason he and Blaine are there; they came for his father's birthday, knowing that it would be one of the last. _The_ last, apparently, which gives Ben a little shudder, thinking of it. It's all so hideously final. The last birthday, the last visit, the last time he will see his father -- it rolls over and over, a constant drumbeat in his head. But he tries not to let any of that show as he knocks on the door of his parents' bedroom, lets himself in.

His father is sitting on the edge of the bed, leafing through a photo album. It's more than a little disconcerting. Photographs are Ben's mother's obsession; his father doesn't care for them, thinks they're pointless. But, then, perhaps that was before he made his final decision; perhaps he's more reflective now that it's almost finished.

Probably not, though. Probably it's something else entirely.

"Dad?" Ben asks, hovering on the threshold.

Jacob blinks at him, then sets the photo album aside, picking up a thick manila folder instead. "Don't just stand there," he mutters, patting the bed next to him. Ben crosses and sits down, a little gingerly, a little uncertain. "You took your time. Mom talking your ear off? She's been going all morning -- someone's birthday or something; she won't shut up about it. Made me put a tie on and everything." He pulls at the offending strip of fabric around his neck. "She's the one who goes to these things anyway; don't know why she's bothering me about it."

Ben takes a deep breath. "That's because it's _your_ birthday, Dad," he explains, gently.

"My birthday?" Jacob repeats, looking a bit bewildered. When Ben nods, his father shakes his head. "Doesn't matter. I've had enough birthdays anyway. No point in pretending this one's anything special just because it's the last." Ben can't stop himself from sucking in a deep breath at that, and his father gives him a quick, irritated look. "Jesus, Ben, you're worse than a woman sometimes. You're not going to try to talk me out of this or anything, are you? Because I'm not going to --"

"No, Dad," Ben says, quietly. He stares down at his hands resting on his lap. "I wouldn't..." He manages to meet his father's eyes after a few moments. "I'm not going to pretend that this is easy for me, but I would never dream of stopping you. Believe me, I... I understand more than you think."

Jacob nods. "All right," he says. "As long as that's settled." He passes the folder over to Ben. "So these are for you -- I want you to take some time with them when you get home. Really look them over." Ben flips the folder open to reveal a thick sheaf of documents -- the first is, unsurprisingly, titled _Last Will and Testament_. "I doubt there'll be any problems; I've already had everything appraised, and we've done the tax estimates and cleared up any remaining debts, but you never know what could happen, and I don't want Katie to have to do all of this on her own. She'll be busy enough trying to keep your mom settled. Someone's going have to help her through this. Might as well be you."

Ben takes a deep breath, and starts flipping through the remaining documents in the stack. Earnings statements from his father's investments, property appraisals, information on his father's accounts. Everything neatly finalized, wrapped up in a little bow. Of course, his father has never been anything less than thorough. "What about John?" he asks, quietly.

"What about him?" Ben looks at his father in disbelief, and Jacob just shrugs. "Don't know why you always made out that he and I were so close to each other. Never hated him or anything, but... Anyway, he's not out of the will entirely. There's some money there for him; should be enough to keep him happy. Most of the rest is going to your mom, of course, so she'll have something to live on, but there's a little bit for all of you. And that boy of yours, for when he gets ready to go to school. He must be pretty big now, right? How old is he? Fifteen?"

"He's seventeen, Dad," Ben says, then adds, "He came with me. To visit you. He's... he's helping Mom and Katie right now, actually. With your birthday cake."

Jacob just blinks at him. "Huh," he says, then turns back to the papers. "I hope you don't mind, but I gave Katie the farm. Only I figure your mom's not going to hang on to this house much longer after I'm gone, and the girl's gonna need a place to stay. She can rent it out if she really doesn't like it, but I'd prefer if you didn't sell it -- it's been in the family a long time now, and you probably wouldn't get half what it's worth anyway." He looks back up at Ben, studying him. "Guess I don't really need to worry about that, though. You were always the sentimental one."

Ben just shrugs at him. It might not be a compliment, but he can't argue that it isn't true.

"And then this house is for your mom, although like I said, I'm pretty sure she'll get rid of it. Katie can take over the sale if you want; I know it's a hell of a commute for you. Just make sure she gets a fair price. She doesn't do things like this that often; I don't want anyone taking advantage of her. You'll do that for me, right?"

"Yes, sir," Ben says, his voice just barely above a whisper. "Of course."

Jacob nods, solemnly. "You've got the contact information for my lawyer in there -- call him if you need anything else. Don't bother calling me for it; I'm useless anyway, these days. But he says we've got it worked out so you won't have too much trouble. Mostly selling the house and taking the taxes out and everything, and I'm pretty sure you can handle that. Like I said, you're the reliable one." He claps one hand down on Ben's shoulder, and Ben forces a smile.

"I..." He takes a deep breath. "Thank you, Dad."

"Thank me by doing your job, Benjamin," his father says, and laughs, and lets go of him. Ben's already standing up, folder in hand, when his father adds, "All right. One more thing."

When Ben turns around, his father has the photo album open on his lap again, and is leafing through it. "Dad?" Ben asks, questioning. He can't imagine what his father could be looking for in there. Some photo of the two of them together? It seems absurdly sentimental, even to him. And anyway, his father's not the type for last-minute apologies. Or any apologies at all, really.

"Sit down," Jacob says. His hands still on the pages; when Ben sinks down next to him, Jacob looks up. "Now I'll tell you in advance that you're not going to thank me for this. But you need to know. I don't want you... I don't want you worrying about whether or not you're going to end up like me. Because that's a hell of a thing to have to think about. So this..." He pushes the album into Ben's hands, tapping at one of the pictures. "This is Roger. Old college buddy of mine. Decent guy. Well, most of the time, anyway. He had his flaws. But I guess he was all right. People liked him. Women, especially. Never saw the appeal myself, but then, what the hell do I know?"

The man in the picture is on the smallish side, closer to Ben's height than his father's. He's wearing little round glasses; his hair is cropped short, and sweeps back from a high forehead. "I don't understand," Ben says, quietly, but it's a lie. He already knows what his father is getting at. He thinks, maybe, he's known for a while now.

And he's pretty sure his father knows that, too, but for once, he seems willing to take the time to explain himself. "Honestly, I kind of got sick of Roger coming around all the time," Jacob says. "I mean, it was one thing when we were still in school, but then I graduated and I got through my residency and got a job and here's this guy, still hanging around. Hell, I was married, I had kids. I had _patients_ to think about. Didn't have time for him. But your mom, you know, she was at home all the time. And John was in school all day, and Katie wasn't, but she was always a quiet kid, didn't need much. This was before you'd even been thought of, of course. So your mom would get bored, and she liked Roger to come visit. She thought he was good company. And I figured... Honestly, I don't know what I was thinking. Probably wasn't thinking at all."

Ben swallows hard. "And you... you think she --"

"Don't have to think, Benjamin." Jacob shakes his head. "She told me. The moment she found out she was pregnant, she told me. And I was furious. Damn near kicked her out over it. But you were on your way, and yeah, Roger was a decent enough guy, but I didn't figure... You know, a man gets another man's wife pregnant, he's probably not the type to own up to it, you know? And then there were Katie and John to think about, so she stayed. And then you came, and you stayed, too. And that was it."

"So that's my father," Ben says. And he wonders why he's not more upset, why it doesn't hurt more, until he realizes that he doesn't believe it. Oh, he has no doubt that his mother cheated; these things happen in every family. But that doesn't necessarily mean that this Roger, whoever he is, has to be Ben's father. There's some physical resemblance, but it's mostly superficial -- the glasses, the receding hairline. Lots of men have those.

And more than that, he _knows_. It's instinctive, intuitive; it's the way he feels attached to his family, to his _father_ , no matter what happens or how angry he is. He just... He _knows_.

"The funny thing is, your mom says he's not. At the time, she was sure he was, but now that you've grown up, she's changed her mind about it. But me..." Jacob just shrugs. "I don't know. I'm not like you, Ben. You're so damn sure when it comes to these things. Like that boy of yours; you've never thought for a second that he could be anyone else's. And maybe your wife's had guys on the side, maybe she hasn't. I don't know. But even if she had, it wouldn't matter, would it? You _know_. Me, I have my doubts.

"But it's not such a bad thing, is it? Not for you, anyway. Hell, the only real problem I ever had with the guy was that he slept with my wife, and you're obviously not the type to do that, so. He was nice enough otherwise, I always thought. And, you know, mentally, he's in great shape. I looked him up, just to check, and he's still sound as a rock. Remembers all kinds of things I forget the second after they happen. So you don't have to worry, Benjamin. You're not... You're not going to turn into me." Jacob shrugs. "Hell, even if you wanted to. You can't."

Ben lets out a long, slow breath. It's not because he's relieved; it's not entirely because he's upset, either. It just... It just feels like the thing to do. "Okay," he says. "Okay, Dad." And then, "Thank you. For telling me."

His father's hand falls on his shoulder again. "For what it's worth, I..." He hesitates, and Ben tenses his jaw; he doesn't want some forced declaration of love now that everything is ending. It's dishonest, and he deserves better. But of course, that's not Jacob Anderson's style. He doesn't lie, not even to family. "Look," his father says. "I get it. We're not really close. But you've always tried to do what's best, Ben, and I appreciate that. I really do. And I'm not... I would happily claim you as my own, if I could. Okay?"

"Okay," Ben says again, and forces a smile. "Thanks, Dad."

"Now get out of here," Jacob says, and gives him a little shove. "I need to get ready. Your mom's dragging me out to someone's birthday tonight, can't remember whose." He tugs at the tie. "Don't know why she's making me do this; never could see the point of..."

Ben looks down at his father, still muttering to himself; he looks down at the file of papers in his own hands and the photo album spread open on his father's lap, and he knows that he has every reason to feel angry. That he can and should be hurt and overwhelmed and confused. And maybe he is, somewhere deep inside; maybe it's just waiting for the right moment to rear its ugly head and tear him down. But right now, watching his father, all he can feel is _sorry_. "Dad?" He waits until his father looks up, then clears his throat and says, "I never hated you. You know that, right? I've been angry at you, and you've... Well. We've had our moments. But I never hated you."

Jacob smiles up at him. "I never hated you either," he says, and that's it. That's all there is to be said.

Ben takes his folder of paperwork and leaves the room.

 

*

 

And perhaps he's more upset than he thought, to the point where it's made him absolutely numb, because he doesn't remember walking out of the house, still clutching the folder; he doesn't remember sitting down on the steps with the papers on his lap and his head in his hands. All he knows is that, after a while, he hears the door open, and when he manages to look up, Blaine is settling down next to him, holding out a plastic tumbler. "Here," he says, quietly.

"What's this?" Ben manages to ask.

"Iced tea," Blaine says, giving him a worried look. "You said... Yesterday, you said you wanted some."

"Oh." Ben takes the cup, sips at it. It's good, actually; he supposes that some of it comes from the fact that he's been sitting out in the Arizona heat for God knows how long, and then some of it comes from the fact that Blaine _remembered_ , but it's still good all on its own. "Thank you."

"Dad," Blaine says, watching him drink. "Are... Are you okay?"

Ben thinks about that, for a few seconds. He doesn't know how to answer. Instead, he sets down the cup and says, "When you were just a baby, I told your mother that you were so beautiful that it was hard for me to believe I had a hand in making you." Blaine stares at him, and Ben almost laughs, remembering the look that Miranda gave him. How furious she was; how hard it was for him to explain. Sometimes, Ben thinks she'd be able to deal with his family's suspicions a lot better if he hadn't inadvertently started it. "Not that I -- Blaine, I have _always_ known that you were my son. From the moment your mother told me she was pregnant, I just... I just knew. I've always known. I'm just not always good at... at saying it, I guess."

Blaine seems to think about it for a few seconds, then quietly leans against Ben's side, tipping his head onto Ben's shoulder, and Ben feels sorry for his father, that he's never experienced this and never will. "Dad, I..." Blaine sighs. "Okay, so one time I kind of told Kurt he looks like a constipated baby penguin."

It startles a choked laugh out of Ben -- Blaine lifts his head a little bit, glaring, and Ben has to wrap his arm around his son to keep him from moving away. "I'm sorry," he says, when he recovers his composure. "I'm sorry, I just... You said _what_?"

"I just... For Warblers, we were doing this song, trying something new, and we decided that it needed to be a little bit..." Blaine clears his throat. "A little bit less... You know, less stiff and formal and more... Well. _Sexy_." Blaine says it so solemnly; it takes everything Ben has not to start laughing. "But Kurt kept making these faces that kind of looked like he was in pain, and I was worried that he wasn't feeling well, so I asked him if he... So then he got upset, and I tried to help him, you know, practicing with him and... and critiquing him. Which I guess wasn't a good idea, because he got mad and accused me of saying that he had all the sexuality of a baby penguin. So that's... It wasn't what I meant to say; I was trying to be helpful, but I guess I just..."

It's a struggle for Ben to maintain his composure; he wants nothing more than to tip over and just start _howling_ , but Blaine's already embarrassed enough and, honestly, he's not sure he wouldn't start sobbing somewhere along the line, and this isn't the time for that. Instead, he pulls Blaine a little bit closer, and asks, "Out of curiosity, were you and Kurt... Were you together at that point, or was that before?"

"Before," Blaine admits, sheepishly, and buries his face in his dad's shirt.

"Wow," Ben says, rubbing his son's back. It's not that he doesn't think that Kurt is a nice enough boy, because he _is_. But he's still a teenaged boy, and insults do more damage when you're that age. So it's amazing that Kurt and Blaine are still speaking, let alone... Well. "Kurt must really like you."

Blaine just groans. "Yeah," he says. "Yeah, he does. I don't know why, though."

"I do," Ben says, and smiles at the top of Blaine's head. Because he does know, and he's glad that someone else sees Blaine for what he is. "Constipated baby penguins, though. That's... Well. That's my boy."

Blaine laughs quietly into Ben's shirt, and stays nestled against him, the two of them falling silent for a little while, quiet and content. "That thing you need to tell me," Blaine says, eventually. "The thing that... that you and Aunt Katie were talking about this morning. Are you going to tell me now, or..."

Ben breathes in and out, smoothing his hand over Blaine's back. His son is already sweating; of course, he is too. Really, it'd be nice if they could do this someplace a little cooler, someplace with air conditioning. The house is out, but there are movie theaters somewhere around here. Probably a mall, too. But maybe it's better this way. It's not comfortable, but they're together, and isn't that what counts? "I think... After dinner," he says, finally. "I want to get through that first. Okay?"

"Okay," Blaine says, pressing his forehead against Ben's neck. "You should drink that tea before it gets too warm."

"I will," Ben promises, but doesn't pick up the cup again.

"Did you really tell Mom that I was beautiful?" Blaine asks, after a few moments. "When I was a baby? You thought I was --"

Ben rests his cheek against Blaine's hair, closing his eyes. "I can retroactively amend that to 'handsome,' if that's what you'd prefer."

"Beautiful's fine," Blaine murmurs.

"Okay, good." Ben sips at his tea, already diluted by the melting ice, and strokes his son's back, and smiles.

 

*

 

The house is quiet, dark, peaceful. Jacob hasn't started wandering yet; Ben wonders if he's going to. He almost hopes he will, just because... Just because. Just so he'll have that last memory of him, when all is said and done. So he'll be able to tell himself that he tried.

But he thinks that maybe tonight, his father isn't going to wander. He thinks he would have already started by now.

"Dad?" Blaine asks, his voice a little rough. He didn't cry very much, when Ben told him, but there were a few tears. Ben had felt them soaking through the fabric of his shirt; he'd shifted his hand up Blaine's back to cup the back of his head, holding him in place the same way he had when Blaine was a baby, that heavy head bobbling on his small, fragile body. "Does... Does Grandpa even know that I'm here?"

Ben sighs and threads his fingers through the thick hair at the nape of Blaine's neck. "He knows that someone is here," he says, quietly. "And I think he realizes that you're the only person I'd bring with me, so he's assuming that it's you. But it's not... he doesn't recognize you anymore. Not really. I'm sorry."

Blaine shifts a little, rubbing his cheek against his father's shirt. It's so much like the old days, when Blaine was an infant and Ben would fall asleep with him on the couch in the living room, his son cradled to his chest. Jacob never understood, and even Ben's mother thought he was a little strange for it. But it was peaceful; it gave Ben an anchor, something simple that he could understand. "But he recognizes you," Blaine says.

"Yes," Ben says, because it's true. "Yes, he does."

"So if this... If you had Alzheimer's," Blaine says, sounding a little hesitant. "I mean, you would recognize me, wouldn't you? Like, you might not recognize your grandchildren. But you'd recognize me."

"I..." Ben is briefly distracted by the idea of Blaine having children; he'd be good at it, Ben thinks. He'd be a good father. But that's not the point right now; there are other things, harder things to talk about. Ben sighs again. "At the stage that your grandfather's at right now, yes. Later on... There's no way of knowing. If I lived long enough, if it got severe enough, I might not recognize anyone. I might not even recognize myself. It's... your grandfather's still in the early stages. It can be so much worse than this. And he knows that, and that's why he's chosen to stop himself before it goes any further." Blaine nods, and wraps his arm tightly around Ben's waist. "But I think," Ben continues, staring up at the ceiling. "I think you would be the very last person I would ever forget."

And it's almost a shame that Ben can't believe he's not his father's son, that he can't just pretend that this Roger is his father, and that he won't have to worry. Because he hates the thought of losing this, of losing Blaine; he hates that he will _always_ have to worry about this. But then, genetics are tricky, and it's possible that he would still get Alzheimer's even if he was someone else's son. And it's possible that he will never have it at all, even if he is an Anderson.

"You should eat more salmon," Blaine announces, after a little bit. "It's supposed to be good for you. For your memory. And flaxseed oil, too. You can get it at the health food store; Kurt buys it for his dad all the time."

Ben smiles, even though his son can't see him. "We'll pick some up as soon as we get home," he says. And the truth is that he probably will. Because he doesn't want to forget this. He never wants to forget this.

 

*

 

Their flight leaves early; despite himself, Ben is half-tempted to reschedule at the last minute, to stay a little longer, to put off the inevitable. But there's no telling what mood his father will be in when he wakes up, what he'll say, what he'll do. It's better to leave this way, while the two of them are still on good terms.

It hurts, too, of course, but then some things are supposed to.

Katie is the only one to wake up with them -- she makes them coffee and fried egg sandwiches, and then takes Blaine out to the living room, and the two of them spend ten minutes hovering over the computer while Ben carries out the luggage, bit by bit, stalling for time. He's just coming back for the last bag when he hears Katie say "Oh, he's _cute_ ," and actually giggle, and stops.

"You know, he made that outfit himself," Blaine says, proudly, and oh. It's the prom pictures. Katie remembered them. Honestly, Ben's not sure why he's surprised; Katie's always been... She takes an interest in these things. Much more so than his parents have ever done. "Can you believe that? I can't even sew a button back on my shirt, and he just..." Blaine sighs, happily. "And he's just so _brave_ ; I mean, I could never --"

"I bet you could," Katie says, and nudges him with her shoulder. "He must be something, though. I mean, if even your dad's talking about him, then... _Well_."

Blaine groans a little bit. "Dad's not... I mean, it's been a little weird, but he's really not that bad; he's just..."

Katie reaches out and wraps an arm around Blaine's shoulders. "He's just incredibly protective of you, and no one you go out with will ever really be good enough?"

"I -- I don't know if I'd --"

"I would." Katie leans her head against Blaine's, dark curls brushing dark curls, and Ben realizes he shouldn't be watching this, eavesdropping like this, but he can't quite stop. "It's funny; I don't know _where_ your dad learned to... I mean, Grandpa's never been that... that hands-on a parent. But your dad's just really good with you. I never figured out where he gets it from. Grandpa Richard, maybe. He loved kids. Your dad, especially." They're quiet together for a few moments, before Katie adds, "I think he would have liked you, too. Grandpa Richard, I mean. You're a lot like your dad."

"You really think so?" Blaine asks, and what's funny is how _hopeful_ he sounds. Like he wants to be like his father. Like there's something there worth aspiring to, like Ben isn't just some middle-aged math professor with a rapidly receding hairline. Like he's... more than that.

"I do," Katie says, and looks over her shoulder for just a minute, smiling at Ben as he watches them, and he flushes beet red and hurries off to collect the last of the bags.

 

*

 

For the first time in his life, Ben doesn't obsess over the shaking of the airplane as it rises impossibly into the sky, the way it makes his stomach drop, his ears ache. There are too many other things to think about -- his mother carefully placing seventy-three candles into his father's tiny birthday cake, like it could make a difference, like it would change his mind somehow. Like Katie, leaning in close and confiding to tell Ben that she'd already discussed it with their father, that when the time came, he'd tell her to take her mother out of the house for a few hours. That they would go out and get their hair done, get manicures as well, maybe even go shopping. They just had to be gone long enough to be absolutely sure. "He doesn't want us to be liable," Katie'd whispered, a strand of hair hanging into her eyes, and Ben's fingers itched with the need to brush it out of her eyes. "You know, because it's not... I mean, it's not legal, or anything, so if we don't try to stop him, we could... But if we're gone, he thinks it'll be all right."

And then there's his father, pretending to sleep in his chair while the world whirls around him, and he understands less and less of it each day. His father, who never did figure out that the birthday he was being dragged off to celebrate was his own. Who couldn't recognize his own grandson, or even his own house. Who will keep losing more and more -- names, faces, landmarks, little bits of the present and larger bits of the past -- until he finally decides that it's time to make it stop. And it's funny, because Ben doesn't want his father to die; he's never wanted that, even when he thought he hated him. But at the same time, he thinks he would rather lose his father right now than have him hesitate until it's too late, until he's no longer aware of his own deterioration and therefore doesn't realize that he can do something about it.

Not that he'll have to worry about that. His father's never been the sort of person to hold back when something needs doing. It's the one thing he and Ben have always had in common.

And then there's John, wherever he is. And it's strange, but Ben almost feels sorry for his brother. Because John might not have to go through this with the rest of them; he won't have to deal with the fighting, the accusations, the hurt feelings. But he's missing out on something, all the same. Ben's not sure what it is, exactly, but it doesn't really matter. He knows that there's something about this that he will be grateful for in the end. He'll figure the rest out in due time.

Ben's so lost in thought that he doesn't notice the plane leveling off, the way the shaking subsides. He doesn't really notice anything at all until Blaine nudges him with his shoulder, pushes one of the earbuds from his iPod in Ben's direction. "Distraction?" Ben asks, a little amused.

Blaine doesn't smile back at him; his eyes are wide and dark, worried. "I thought you could use it," he says.

"Thanks," Ben says, and takes the little earbud, putting it in carefully. He watches Blaine do the same, and when Blaine's hand shifts on the music player, ready to press _Play_ , Ben reaches out to stop him, his hand settling on Blaine's wrist. "Blaine," he says, quietly, and waits until Blaine's eyes meet his. "I love you. You know that, right?"

"I know," Blaine says, and this time he smiles, just a little bit.

Ben's hand shifts a little bit, not losing contact, just letting Blaine know that it's all right. The music starts, and Ben and Blaine relax into their seats, Ben's hand still covering his son's.

_When I was your age, I was just like you  
And just look at me now -- I'm sure you do_

Ben laughs a little, more out of startled recognition than anything else, and Blaine gives him an inquiring look. "One of my favorites," Ben explains, and Blaine's smile broadens; he quickly places the iPod on his lap and then resettles his arm on the armrest between them, his hand turned upwards. Ben reaches out carefully, lacing his fingers with Blaine's. They smile at each other for a few more seconds, then quietly sink back into their separate seats.

_It never really ends, though each race is run,_   
_This thing between a father and a son._

_Maybe it's power; push and shove._   
_Maybe it's hate; probably it's love._   
_Maybe it's hate; probably it's love._


End file.
